CHAPTER 39:   BLUE LIGHT YOKOHAMA

SOMETIME AFTER DAWN, IWATA BEGAN to pack up his things. It took less than a quarter of an hour to put everything he owned in the car. Shutting the trunk, he looked up at his apartment window one last time. Motoyoyogicho had never really been home. Starting the engine, he felt nothing, as though leaving behind a mid-range business hotel.

Iwata drove toward Shibuya on quiet, hesitant streets. Tokyo was rebuilding again. It always did. Through his sunroof, he absorbed the news on the giant LED screen above a department store.

A famous young actress had announced her engagement to a member of an up-and-coming idol band. A popular comedian had apologized for tax irregularities. There was a new Number One record in Japan. The broadcast ended with an insurance company’s slogan:

THIS IS WHAT JAPAN SHOULD BE.

At the southern entrance of Shibuya Station, the first few street vendors had assembled, smoking and sharing cups of coffee as they laughed.

Iwata drove on to Meguro, listening to the radio.

“Six months on from the installation of specially designed blue LED lights above the platforms of dozens of Yamanote Line stations, politicians and rail executives alike are branding the scheme a success. This despite 2011 being well on course to surpass thirty thousand suicides. For Mr. Hiroshi Namba, director of a nonprofit suicide prevention group, these figures are not surprising.”

A man with a soft voice could now be heard.

“The situation is very serious. Of course, I hope these blue lights are helping. But it’s a Band-Aid over a gunshot wound. Train suicides account for between 4 to 6 percent of the annual total. Every positive measure is welcome, but what is really needed is constant, ongoing support. In the streets, in the homes, in the workplace. People can often find themselves struggling with multiple issues. Unemployment leads to debt, debt leads to depression, depression leads to entrenched patterns of suicidal thinking. There are no easy solutions, but what is certain is that there needs to be far more support from society as a whole—not just some blue lights.”

The show cut back to the newsreader.

“It’s four years ago to the day that the government released a counter-suicide white paper setting aside 12.4 billion yen in suicide prevention assets. Positive results were expected by 2017, yet nearly halfway to the target date, Japan seems a long way off from this. As for the blue lights, it looks like they’re here to stay. This is Sumiko Shimosaka reporting for—”

Iwata turned off the radio.

Outside Matsumoto’s storage building, he slowly loaded up the car with his boxes. When he was finished, he went back to the hole-in-the-wall and bought another plate of vegetable and shrimp dumplings.

“You came back.” The old cook grinned. “A man that keeps his promises.”

Chewing, Iwata watched life flow along the main road. It was impossible to tell Japan had been brutalized a few months before. At the end of the street, a fragile row of cherry trees were in a shy bloom.

*   *   *

Just before lunchtime, Iwata paid Cleo’s overdue Nakamura Institute bills, covering her in advance until the new year. He then asked if he might make a donation. Taken aback, the nurse agreed. But when Iwata led her out to the cardboard boxes stacked by his car, she turned to him.

“I’m not sure I understand.”

“My wife owned a record store in California. I want to give this music to the institute. I’d like it if she could hear her own music every once in a while.”

The nurse smiled uncertainly.

“Of course.”

Iwata filled out a form and borrowed one of the better wheelchairs. He found Cleo in the garden, in her usual place. He lowered her in, trying not to hurt her weak muscles. Getting her comfortable in the car was no easy task, but Iwata managed it by moving the passenger seat all the way back and lodging her head in place with a folded pillow.

The drive to Chōshi was long and slow, with frequent stops for Cleo to vomit. They arrived a little before sunset. Passing through the city, though quake damage was visible everywhere, Iwata noticed how little had changed since they had lived here. It was still just a simple little city built on soy production and fishing. As he drove alongside the Tone River, he thought about the past. With his foreign police studies, only Chōshi had been prepared to take Iwata back then. Cleo joined him a few months later. She had joked about the city at first, not expecting anything more than just a backdrop to their new life. But then she had seen the coastline. Looking up at the lighthouse, she smiled.

It’s home.

Cleo’s eyes were closed now. In this light, she might have just shut her eyes momentarily, tired after the long drive. It struck Iwata then that, while he could picture her smile vividly, he couldn’t recall her voice with certainty. He remembered its quality, its color. The lilting between enthusiasm and playfulness. But he had gone so long without it, without a single word. It was inevitable he would lose it in time. Maybe that was the only way.

Inubōsaki Lighthouse came into view, piercing the orange fringe of the sunset.

Iwata stopped the car in its shadow and turned to Cleo. The absence of motion woke her. He unfolded the wheelchair and lowered her in again. When he maneuvered her to face the lighthouse, she began to squirm in her chair, whimpering loudly. Iwata ignored it and pushed her to a nearby bench. The ocean sighed.

All around them, it was that perfect light—existing only at early morning or late dusk. It was at its most desperate and golden, casting shadows as long as they can be, so beautiful it seemed unlikely ever to return.

Iwata kissed Cleo on her cheek and she blinked. She used to have her own smell. Now it was wet wipe lemon. He brought his face level with hers, but there was no expression. He missed her concentration face. Even reading a newspaper she looked majestic. Or, if she were putting on mascara, she would make an O with her lips. Lips he wished he could kiss.

“All right,” Iwata said. “Enough.”

He walked to the cliff’s edge and threw flowers over. He counted to three, then forced himself to look at the rocks below.

Finally, he saw them.

They were only rocks.

He went back to his wife, knelt before her and took her hands.

“I need to talk to you now, Cleo. I have this dream. A falling dream. Of you and the baby. And I can’t have it anymore. I just can’t.”

He bowed his head.

“I still love you very much. I still love Nina very much. I will always love you both. More than life itself. But I have to start again, do you understand? If I don’t, I’ll always be stuck here. So I hope you can forgive me. For this. And for everything else. I’m very sorry. I truly am.”

Cleo closed her eyes. She seemed tired. Iwata sat back against her shins to watch the sunset.

The lighthouse looked down over them.

*   *   *

A chilly dawn, somewhere west of Miyama. Blue light was creeping over the mountainous horizon.

Iwata stopped the car. He didn’t know what time it was but it didn’t matter. He was accustomed to exhaustion by now. The road gave way to an overgrown field, which sloped down to a deep valley.

All around Iwata, hills stretched out like green pyramids. There was a river cutting through them, silver in this light.

Iwata got out of the car, taking a bag with him. He made his way down to the river and followed it until he came to an old, familiar copse. He picked through the branches and emerged into the field he was looking for. But it had changed. There were no tall gates, no walls, no chapel. Iwata realized Sakuza Orphanage was no longer there, just some old foundations left in the grass. Bellflowers grew among the crumbled bricks. Sakuza was gone, like so much else.

Iwata crossed the field, into the denser forest. He was searching for the sound. The sound from his dreams. Sun pierced through the canopy. Birds chirped. A soft insect buzzing could be heard. He carried on along the ridge, tracing the stony spine from memory. The shape of the rocks, the rich smell of the leaves, the sound of the water—it all sparked old images in him—childhood echoes Iwata couldn’t define. He couldn’t grasp them firmly, but they were unmistakably there.

And then he found the rock. The memory of Kei climbing it and preaching as Uesugi was vivid. He saw the tree he had fallen against laughing, all those years ago. He closed his eyes and remembered the words.

“Let us not fear the bear,” he whispered.

Iwata tried to remember a time before the orphanage. There were only snatches. His mother putting on her perfume. Being left in the bus station. The first time he took the subway in Tokyo. That was a good, strong image. He loved that shabby Yamanote Line, rising up high over the city, the tracks running right past bedroom windows. The streets turned to scenery; blurry but sharp, with the melancholy of a child. Iwata remembered streaking past all that life he’d never know, all the life he’d never live himself. But Tokyo was never home. Not then, not now. Iwata looked around the forest. If anywhere had ever been home, it was here.

The ridge had narrowed and Iwata had to hold on to branches for balance. The sun cut white patches on the brown-golden carpet below. And then he heard the sound. The sound of the whirlpool. A crashing sound with a murmuring underneath that.

Ug.

Ug.

Ug.

Iwata followed it, feeling the temperature drop. The end of the ridge was very narrow, just wide enough for him to stand. He reached the end—a forlorn and wintry bluff. Iwata took a breath and looked down at it.

The eye of the whirlpool blinked up at him, the revolutions gleaming.

He opened the bag and took out the Blue Light Yokohama LP Kei had given him all those years ago. He ran his finger over the faded stickers on the sleeve.

25TH DECEMBER 1968. EVERGREEN STANDARD. NUMBER ONE BEST SELLER.

First, Iwata tossed the sleeve, and Ayumi Ishida’s beautiful smile went spiraling downward.

Then she was gone.

He broke the record over his knee and threw it down too. Black fragments that glittered for a moment, then disappeared.

“I love you too,” Iwata said quietly. Then he walked away.

The whirlpool swirled.

It swirled.

It smiled.